Flamingo Fugitive (Supernatural Bounty Hunters 5) (3 page)

Chapter Four

“Mi mi mi mi mi mi mi miiiiiiiiii!”  Francine practiced her breathing exercises before running through a few scales.  It was clichéd, maybe, but her drama instructor had been pretty clichéd.  The woman turned up for classes in a cape and beret.  Francine always pretended that she couldn’t tell Madame Noir’s French accent was fake.  Or that she knew the Madame worked a day job making sandwiches at The Pickle King. 
Admitting either of those things would have ruined the illusion.

After a few more warm-ups, Francine practiced her lines again in front of the mirror.  If she were to give advice to any up and coming young actors, she’d advise them to get a full-length mirror.  It was an absolute necessity.  That and maybe some acting lessons and a good agent, but the mirror also helped.

She tried reading the lines without the script and only stuttered slightly when loud reggae music blared through the wall.  Her flamingo fluttered in irritation.  She banged her fist on the wall and told the occupants of the apartment next to her to keep it down.  Jeez, only 5.30 pm and Curtis was already getting stoned.

Francine didn’t exactly live in a great neighborhood.  Jobbing actors weren’t exactly rolling in money.  And what little money Francine earned went to her wardrobe, make up and various beauty products that all promised to make her look younger.  They never worked, but Francine lived in hope.  And at least she wasn’t so desperate as to resort to a little magical interference.  A friend of hers, Mindy did that, virtually selling her soul to look ten years younger.  It didn’t end well.  Her friend refused to pay up to the witch, and she aged ten years.  It was mortifying.  Her friend retired, got married and moved to the suburbs, so she was kind of happy in the end.  Bitter at the end of her career, but kind of happy.

As for the wardrobe, she was happy to report that she had every outfit to suit every occasion.  That included an outfit for ballroom dancing and one for go-go dancing.  It paid to be prepared.  Over the years, she had starred in some amateur productions where the budget didn’t stretch as far as wardrobe, and the actors were hired based on whether they could provide their own costumes.  Francine always made sure she was prepared in this respect. 

She was also adept at stage make up and could actually create some passable fake wounds.  She kept a supply of make up just for that purpose.  She didn’t know whether she would be called on to create her own wounds if money were tight.

Francine lived in a tiny apartment next to Curtis, a drug dealing sloth shifter on one side, and a drag artist gorilla shifter called Twinky on the other.  They were actually pretty good neighbors and looked out for her. 
As Twinky said, girls had to stick together
.  Twinky was six-foot-four and built like a linebacker, but Francine dearly appreciated the sentiment.

Curtis only dealt marijuana, he wouldn’t go in for the hard drugs, he said.  Francine had even joined one of his parties once or twice or ten times.  They involved him and his friends sitting around, getting stoned and eating fried chicken.  She only stopped because inevitably they ended with her making out with a camel shifter, who only bathed once a week, and because she heard that marijuana smoke caused wrinkles.

Francine pouted at the mirror and tried to form herself into a sultry pose. 
Hmmm, not bad.
  Francine was an hourglass.  Literally, you could hold an hourglass up to Francine, and you’d be hard pushed to tell the difference between the two in shape.  She was curvy on top, curvy on the bottom and had a nipped in waist that made corsets a piece of cake.  She was born to be a siren. 
Except, sirens went out of fashion about forty years ago
.  As far as Francine could tell, the new fashion was for young women who didn’t have hips or boobs and could be mistaken for ironing boards.  Never mind hourglasses, the new trend was for panes of glass.  It was why the producer, Bambi had sniggered at her the other day.  Francine couldn’t be mistaken for a malnourished junkie; she was far too voluptuous. 

She garnered leers in her own right, but for some reason, men flocked to the ironing boards.  A case in point was her last boyfriend, Tristan, who she kicked out of her life two months ago.  They had been starring together in the same production when she caught him teaching breathing exercises to one of the understudies in his dressing room.  At least that was his lame excuse.  How the young girl could breathe with that thing in her mouth Francine would never know.  Although, admittedly it wasn’t particularly big…  The situation made for some very tense rehearsals after that; that’s all she knew.

Dating actors was never enjoyable for her.  They preened even more than she did – without even having the excuse of being flamingo shifters.  They spent longer on their hair than her, and they took longer to get dressed.  It was like dating a worse version of herself.  And that was when they were at their best.  At their worst, there were the recriminations if she got a part, and they didn’t.  There were the sly comments about
how
she got the part, and the jealousy made her want to tear her feathers out. 

In spite of her friend, Felicia’s valiant efforts at matchmaking, she just didn’t tend to meet anyone else other than actors.  Normal nine to five guys couldn’t get on board with her bohemian lifestyle - by which she meant poor.  There were times when it was so rough that she had given up her lease on her apartment and crashed on friends’ couches while subsisting on cans of tuna and beans. 

Francine banged on the wall.  The reggae music – for it was always reggae music, no other music seemed to appeal to the stoned – was turned down and Curtis shouted out an apology.

Francine sighed; in theory, she shouldn’t be able to smell the marijuana.  But she felt like she could.  An urge to forget about rehearsing, to drop everything and join her feckless neighbor almost overwhelmed her. 
Almost
.  If she went in there now, she might not be seen for days.  She’d be found, attached at the lips to a languid camel shifter, and having gained five pounds from trying to eat her own body weight in fried chicken. 
No, not again.

Besides she actually had somewhere to be.  Yep, Michael St. Fontaine had actually called, and asked if she could audition for his next project.  She was tickled pink!

Her flamingo whined in objection.  Fine, tickled
blue
.  The creature still whined.

Yes, so, okay, Francine had mixed feelings about meeting with him, too. 
Very mixed feelings.
  But, he hinted on the phone that he was going to give her a substantive role in his next project – that could mean the freaking lead!  In all her career, she’d never been the lead.  If she did this, the roles would come pouring in, and she could have her pick – instead of being forced to do whatever role anyone deigned to give her.  That commercial where she played a dancing tomato who was depressed because kids wouldn’t eat her was a particular sore point.

It was kind of strange that Michael was already auditioning for his next project when his current project was barely underway.  But what did she know?  She didn’t have a lot of hands-on experience of producing movies, but they did tend to prep as far in advance as possible, so maybe this was normal.  Ooh, maybe she could have some creative control over her character.  That thought was kind of exciting and unruffled the feathers of her inner bird a little.  If there was one thing that soothed her flamingo, it was the thought of getting to perform for people.  If she did have control over her character, it would be to ensure that she wasn’t a prostitute.  One depressingly familiar theme throughout Michael’s films was that all his heroines were prostitutes.  Perhaps a more mundane profession called for her character.

Francine touched up her make up and beamed at her reflection.  She felt a bubbly happiness that she hadn’t felt in a while.  Or at least not since she basked in the applause of her last performance.  It had been a stage show, and that had ended a month ago.  On a high, she was pleased to admit, but she had been out of work since then.  The director was keen to do another production with much of the same cast but just needed to secure funding.  Francine hoped that he would call and that it hadn’t been some idle thought while drunk off success.

She slipped into a tight blue dress, that didn’t show off too much cleavage and donned some skyscraper heels.  Apart from Twinky, who always looked immaculate, she was by far the best-dressed person in her building, where jogging bottoms and unwashed t-shirts were the norm.

Francine brushed out her short black bob, she always kept it short so that wigs were easy, grabbed her purse.  After a couple more breathing exercises, she was on her way.

Last month Francine had finally given up the ghost of trying to afford a car.  She sold it and bought a pair of designer pumps instead. 
The trade seemed about right
.  Traffic in the city was always heaving anyway, so buses really were the best way to travel.  And on buses you really did meet interesting people.  She liked to think of it as research.  Listening to the multi-ethnic chatter on the bus helped her with accents.  In addition to a German accent, she now had a Spanish accent in her back pocket if she needed it.  She wouldn’t make the same mistake as Mindy and just turn up to an audition mimicking Speedy Gonzalez.

Francine stepped out into the hallway and sighed as she realized Curtis’ party had spilled out there.  The door to his apartment was wide open and the camel shifter, Milo, was leaning against it in all his greasy glory.  Wafts of sweet smelling smoke floated into the hallway indiscriminately.  It was fine; she had some Febreeze in her bag – it worked far better than perfume, plus it was cheaper.

Milo nodded at her and smiled, goofily.  “Hey,” he drawled.

“Hello,” she replied in a friendly voice as she locked her apartment.

“We’re having a party.”

“So I smell.”

Milo chuckled.  “Want to join us?”

Francine bit her lip, but carefully so that she didn’t ruin her lipstick.  He had no idea how much she wanted to join them.  A night free from worrying about bills.  A night where she didn’t have to slather her face in cold cream or pluck or wax something.  A night when she could let loose.

She glanced at Milo.  He was wearing a pair of low-slung jeans and nothing else.  His tall, lithe body stood before her in all its moderately muscled glory. 
It was tempting
.

Her flamingo nudged her, and Francine snapped out of it and shook her head.  “Maybe next time.”

“Definitely,” he leered, but in a half-hearted, stoned kind of way.  Not the ‘I’m undressing you with my eyes’ kind of way.  It was the ‘I have no inhibitions so I could be doing anything right now’ way.

Francine waved at him as she tottered past and mentally went over her lines a few more times.

Chapter Five

Stone whistled as he strode past Susie, the new receptionist at Heavenly Booties.  He gave her a wink, and she gave him a sultry growl in return.  He grinned. 
Cheetah shifters certainly weren’t shy.

He frowned as he caught a familiar whiff.  It was a mixture of cinnamon and nutmeg.  Huh, now where had he scented that before?  His rhino huffed at him and virtually rolled his eyes.

“Aha!” shouted Stone as he pushed the door open to the staff locker room, only scaring Allen the yoga instructor slightly.  Now he remembered that scent.  It was from Caitlyn.  Strange that he should smell it here. 

He shrugged.  Maybe one of the new trainers brought in cake or cookies or something.  The new ones did things like that, until Gabby, the terrifying jaguar manager, scared them out of it.  Gabby was an even bigger health nut than Stone, and she did not tolerate sugar in the workplace.  As far as she was concerned, it was right up there with cigarettes and alcohol.

Stone put it to the back of his mind.  He had a new client to think about - a squirrel shifter accountant called Dave, who was looking to put on some muscles quickly in order to impress the new girl at work.  It was a challenge, but Stone admired the little guy’s pluck.  And hey, impressing a girl –
he could relate to that
.

He was considering his options when he ran into a warm body that smelled of a mixture of nutmeg and cinnamon. 

“Hey!”

His rhino stirred uneasily.  “Hey, Caitlyn.”

“Fancy seeing you here,” she teased.

“Where I work?”

Caitlyn held up her hands.  “Guilty!”  She let out a dirty chuckle.  “I’m sorry, but after you mentioned this place, I couldn’t help myself.  I’ve been looking for a new gym.  Plus I know a friendly trainer.  You don’t mind, do you?”  Her eyelashes fluttered manically.

“Naw, it’s no problem.  Good to see you, I gotta go.”

“Sure, see you around.”  She bounced away.

He watched her go.  A feeling of icy worry trickled down his spine.  It was probably nothing.  He’d run into former partners before.  Despite his rhino’s misgivings, this was no big deal.

He strode off to find Dave.  He listened, patiently as Dave extolled the virtues of his crush and sweated his way through a workout.  It was easy; Stone could do it on autopilot.

But after his session, he was mildly alarmed to find Caitlyn waiting for him.

Caitlyn beamed at him.  “Hey, good workout?”

“Sure was.  Well…”

“You fancy getting a drink?”

“Thanks, but I have plans.”  He didn’t even need the indignant howl from his rhino to tell him to say no.

Her smile didn’t slip, but it did seem almost to petrify on her face.  “Like what?”

“Oh ah…”  He barely hesitated at all.  “I have to catch a bounty, a skip.  My other job.”

“I see, some other time?”  She gave him a sharp look and for once in his life, he had the feeling of being prey.  Not a natural affliction for a rhino as big as him.

“Ah, yeah, maybe.  I better go, stuff to do.”

He expected her to leave, but she didn’t.  She stood watching him.  He wasn’t even sure she was blinking. 
It was pretty freaky
.

He tried to smile disarmingly, but it had no effect. 
Crap
.  He turned and walked away, aware that she was tracking his every move.  Well, maybe he could go into the bail bond office and beg for a skip – just to back up his story.  Besides, the extra money couldn’t hurt.

He was worrying over nothing.  He probably wouldn’t even see Caitlyn again.

*

Michael St. Fontaine treated her to his patent oily smile as he brandished two wine bottles.  “White or red.”

“White, but just a small glass.  Don’t want it to ruin my performance.”

He chuckled softly.  It was like he was laughing at a private joke.  Francine ignored him and perused the family photos on the walls.  His house was outstanding, and his family – his model wife and their two adorable children – were unbelievably perfect.

He pushed a glass into her hand.  “Your family’s beautiful,” she commented.

Michael took her elbow and led her away from the pictures into the living room.  “Yes, I’m very lucky,” he said, dismissively.

“More than lucky, whatever magical creature you’ve been rubbing for luck, I want me some of that,” she said, joking.

“What do you mean?” he asked, crisply, giving her a highly suspicious look.

“Nothing, just that, you know, you’re lucky.”  She smiled at him, sheepishly, ignoring the warning squawks of her flighty bird.

He watched her for a few moments, and upon finding nothing more than a poor attempt at a joke, he relaxed.  He downed his glass of wine and pointedly looked at hers.  She sipped it demurely, as he poured himself another, and guzzled that as if there was no tomorrow.  And is if there would be no hangover tomorrow.

“Should we get down to business?”  Before he was so wasted he couldn’t even remember his own name, thought her bird, tartly.

“Eager, aren’t you?” he said, in a way that was probably supposed to be rakish but was just slimy.  “Okay, why don’t we read the scene together?  I’ll read the part of the male lead.”